


Truly, Madly, Deeply

by hktk



Series: Another Happy Day [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:45:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hktk/pseuds/hktk
Summary: “So kiss me, angel.”The room comes to a spinning halt.“Pardon?” Aziraphale looks up.“Kiss me.”





	Truly, Madly, Deeply

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,  
> I've read Good Omens a long time ago, and it influenced a lot on my writing style. My book is even waterdamaged from so long ago...  
> I recently watched the TV show and wrote a little something for one of my favorite pairings of all time.  
> Enjoy!

“Hey, angel?”

Crowley’s voice is soft yet smooth, smooth like peanut butter on a piece of warm toast. That’s what Crowley’s voice was, generally, when he speaks to Aziraphale, this day, for some reason, in the little old bookshop that the angel had decided to run. Aziraphale had paid no mind to the change in his voice, though he had noted it when Crowley first had come over to speak with him about this matter, or that matter, or even _this or that_ matter earlier in the day. 

But now the day is growing old, and there is no time to not notice how warm and smooth his voice is. Crowley would say the night is young, that there’s an unlimited amount of time between them, but Aziraphale would have to disagree. 

Aziraphale doesn’t turn to him, though he gives a quick glance over to the side, to where Crowley is reclining on the sofa a foot or so away from him. Crowley, that old fiend, is inspecting his nails, his glasses firmly on his face even though the light is dim. 

Now, for some reason, Aziraphale is nervous. He’s not sure why he is — he’s been nervous before, for sure. In fact, a lot of his personality is comprised of simply being anxious quite often. But there’s no reason to be nervous around Crowley[1]. 

After stopping Armageddon, there’s definitely not a reason to be nervous around him. They had been inseparable since then, often going out to lunch or even dinner together, with Crowley coming back to Aziraphale’s place or the other way around each night. They would sit in silence, with Aziraphale reading a book and Crowley on his phone — just enjoying each other’s pleasant company. Not that Crowley would ever admit to that. 

Regardless, Aziraphale is nervous, and that is what causes his voice to crack when he answers Crowley, pulling the book he’s holding closer to his face. “Yes, Crowley?”

Crowley notices the crack, the pitch of his voice, and he looks over at Aziraphale. His nails are quickly forgotten as he moves a touch closer, and for some reason, Aziraphale is even more nervous. 

“You alright?” Crowley asks of him. 

“What, what do you mean? Of course I—I’m alright. Of course.”

Crowley isn’t the least bit convinced, but he quiets down about it, and again, he moves slightly closer. “Yeah? Well, I wanted to ask you something.”

Aziraphale lowers the book a bit, glancing very, _very_ quickly over at Crowley. He’s lowered his glasses to the very tip of his nose, his eyes seemingly glowing in that dim, dim light, with his pupils large and round, as if he were looking at something he adored.  

“Y-Yes, well, get on with it,” Aziraphale sputters. 

“You ever kissed someone before?” Crowley says even before Aziraphale finishes his sentence. 

Aziraphale now knows why he’s been nervous. It’s as if he could sense the question, sense... sense something else, splattered throughout the room haphazardly like a modern painter’s painting upon a canvas[ **2**]. 

He’s scared to give this “paint” a name, scared to even think about it. Instead, his voice just rises in pitch as he asks, “What?”[3] 

Crowley looks at him for a moment longer then shrugs. “Dunno. Just a question. Wanna kiss me?”

Aziraphale slams the book closed, setting it with a shaky hand on the table to his left. He looks back at Crowley, though, again, he’s scared to. But he perseveres, holds fast to his nerves, though his face is flushed a deep red, already. 

“Th-There’s an order to things, you know.” He can’t level his voice, though he’s trying his damndest. “W-We can’t just go around, go around kissing one another. We-We haven’t even held hands yet, or, or, or...”

Crowley seems to give this weighted thought. “No, no. We have held hands. Don’t you remember that time back in the seventeenth century when we had to pretend to be lovers, rather than friends? We held hands, then, walked the streets even.”

“Th-That was different!” Aziraphale squeaks, turning his head away. “How... How can you act so casual about this? Though, though I do admit, you’re a demon, so... so this should be natural, I suppose. Are you attempting to tempt me, foul beast?! I’ll have you know that, that I won’t be! You cannot tempt someone like—”

Crowley’s hand is on the back of his neck, and Crowley is suddenly leagues closer. His other hand rests on Aziraphale’s knee, squeezing it slightly. The combination of these two things effectively shuts him up. Crowley leans in, and he leans in even further, and then further yet, and Aziraphale’s back is straight as a rod and he can’t move at all. Blast it all to hell, he’s so nervous. 

The lips of the demon find their way to the angel’s cheek. Crowley’s lips are a lot smoother, a lot softer, than what Aziraphale was expecting. He was expecting something crackly, like the fire that Aziraphale is sure makes up at least 27% of Crowley. But no, they’re nothing like that at all. In fact, they’re rather pleasant. 

He swallows thickly. Crowley’s thumb moves across his neck, just above his hairline, smoothing down what locks he has back there. 

“It was just a question, angel,” says Crowley, and for some reason, there’s a bit of disappointment in his voice. But Aziraphale isn’t paying attention to that bit at all — not when he’s speaking so close to his ear. Aziraphale shudders, swallowing again, and he doesn’t dare turn his head. His eyes flutter closed, however. “You don’t have to.”

A lull falls between them, a comfortable one, though Crowley still half-pets his hair with his thumb, still has his hand on his knee, and Aziraphale’s not sure what to do with his own hands, so he keeps them firmly in his lap. He fists them so hard that his knuckles are white, and he swallows for a third time when Crowley stands. 

His hands, although they had made him nervous in the moment, Aziraphale finds himself missing. For a fourth time, he swallows, as he looks up at Crowley stretching, yawning.  

“I’ll get going then. Getting late. Night’s young, but I’m beat, you know.”

Aziraphale nods. “I-I’ll walk you to the door,” he says, polite as always, but as he stands, Crowley waves a hand, readjusting his glasses. 

“Don’t gotta.” He gives a small smile to Aziraphale. “Just sit tight. See you tomorrow.”

Aziraphale stands up all the way, still, but Crowley’s already left by the time Aziraphale musters up the strength to take a step forward. He fiddles with his hands in front of him, licking his lips and looking at the wooden floor of the quaint little shop he had decided to run. 

He did say the night was young, after all.

 

* * *

Aziraphale found that he could not sleep that night. Every time he closed his eyes, he would see Crowley’s face peering at him, feel his lips upon his cheek, feel the hand against the back of his neck and the thumb in his hair. Every time he opened his eyes after such a fit, he would be disappointed that Crowley was not actually there. 

He shakes his head as he gets up at promptly seven in the morning as usual. He didn’t feel tiredness, at least. Well, that was a lie — he did _feel_ tired, but he didn’t need to feel tired. Perhaps he’s gone native, after all. 

He keeps the bookshop closed for the day, quietly eating breakfast, then lunch, all by his lonesome self. His cocoa and tea throughout the day keep him company, as do his books, but it’s not the same as having someone next to him on this couch, so close yet so far away. 

That’s why he goes to the phone, picks it up, and dials Crowley’s number. He twists the cord of the phone around his hand and fingers, pulling taut until it hurts a little and he winces. He bites his lip as the phone continues to ring. 

“Crowley,” he says the moment the phone stops ringing and connects him through, “I have—”

“ _Hi, this is Anthony Crowley. You know what to do — do it in style._ ”

Aziraphale thinks for a moment that he should curse, but he doesn’t. He can’t, more like it. After the recording message plays, he speaks up again.

“Crowley, it’s me, Aziraphale. Call me—”

The line clicks, and Crowley’s smooth, warm voice comes in through the line again — this time, it’s very, very real, and not a recording. “ _Yes, angel?_ ” 

Suddenly, Aziraphale cannot for the life of him[4] think of what to say. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out, so he closes it. But he has to say _something_ , so he opens it again. Still, nothing. 

“ _Aziraphale?_ ”

The angel in question takes a deep breath and nods, though he knows Crowley can’t see him do so. “I-I... I wanted to say that...” 

But he can’t do it. 

“Will you come over?” he says instead of whatever it was he was going to say. 

There’s a pause, before Crowley speaks again. “... Sure, angel. I’ll be over in a jiffy, as they say.” 

The line goes dead — Aziraphale hangs up first, nearly slamming the phone onto its stand. He licks his lips and lets his hand linger on the phone before he realizes that Crowley will go 150 MPH and be over here in _less_ than a jiffy. He bites the knuckle of his thumb and takes a step, two steps, three steps away from the phone. Then he reaches for it again. 

Maybe he can catch Crowley before he leaves, or he can call his cell phone. He has both numbers memorized, after all, so it’ll be easy to call either one. But he mustn’t stand around and dawdle. He has to call now, tell him not to come over, tell him to just stay home and tend to his very scared plants. 

By the time he pulls the phone off of the hook, he hears a knock on the door. Aziraphale jumps where he stands, and he looks over his shoulder towards the front door of the bookshop he had decided to run. 

“... W-We’re closed,” he shouts. 

“It’s me.”

Oh. _Oh_. It’s Crowley. 

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. Had it really been that long? What was he doing, just standing there, awaiting his doom? 

He pads over to the door, opening it up just a crack. Crowley peers down at him from the other side, and Aziraphale opens the door wider, moving off to the side so that Crowley may enter. 

Crowley waltzes in like he owns the place, hands on his hips, looking around. He’s been here just yesterday, though he still picks up a book that’s been there forever from one of the racks in the center of the room, flipping through it. He speaks as he does. 

“So? What’d you call me over here for?”

Aziraphale squeaks. “W-Would you like some tea? I’ll put some on.”

“Blehh, you know I don’t like that stuff. C’mon, what’d you want to say to me? You know,” Crowley closes the book with a light snap, returning it to its place, “you can tell me anything.”

Aziraphale’s face is as red as a tomato as he looks back down to the floor, wringing his hands in front of him. “I-I... I wanted to say that... I-I... You know, I didn’t say that I would... well, that I would strictly _hate_ to... to, you know... Um.”

Crowley takes a step closer. “I’m afraid I don’t know. Are you feeling alright?”

Aziraphale takes half of a step back, more out of nerves than anything. It’s not as if he’s scared of Crowley. In fact, it’s more of the opposite. He swallows for the uncountable time in the last twenty-four-hours. 

“I wouldn’t... _hate_ it... if we were, to... you know. If we, we were to... _kiss_.”

He whispers the last word, as if it were a naughty one and he was speaking it to God Herself. 

There’s a long, long, long, what feels like a long silence between them. Aziraphale does not look up, for now he’s scared of what will happen. Should he have said that? Shouldn’t he have said that? Should he just run away and hide and... and...

“... S-Sorry,” Aziraphale blurts without thinking. “I shouldn’t have said anything, and, and, it’s alright if you changed your, your mind in the last... the last day. A-After all, you said... you said it was just a question, so, so, it’s not like I’m, I’m expecting anything or —”

“So kiss me, angel.”

The room comes to a spinning halt. 

“Pardon?” Aziraphale looks up. 

“Kiss me,” Crowley repeats, taking off his glasses. His pupils are round again, and there’s a light splash of color on his cheeks. Aziraphale wonders what he was looking at just prior to coming here, or maybe it’s the fact that the light must really be dim and Crowley is searching for light, or... 

“Kiss me, angel.”

“I-I’ve never... I’ve never, um, done this sort of thing, so... so I’m afraid I don’t know where to... to begin. Wouldn’t it be easier if you kissed me? You’re a demon, after all.”

“Are you asking me to tempt you?” Crowley saunters over to the sofa, dropping down onto it as gracefully as one would expect him to[5]. He folds his glasses and hooks them into his shirt, then pats the spot next to me. “I’m afraid I can’t tempt an angel.”

Aziraphale pauses before following him, sitting rather stiffly next to him. Crowley decides that they’re not close enough and moves closer, his arm running along the back of the sofa behind Aziraphale. It’s a common enough position between the two of them, except for the fact that their thighs are touching this time. Aziraphale bites his bottom lip very hard. 

“B-But, but I’m not sure _I_ can tempt a _demon_ , especially, especially one like you...”

“Here, I’ll close my eyes.” And Crowley does just that. Aziraphale even peeks over at him, confirming it with his own eyes. “Does that help? Just come closer, just kiss me.”

Aziraphale’s entire world is spinning. His eyes are wet as he does as he’s told, going a little closer. Crowley reaches out for Aziraphale’s hand, the one furthest away from him, and holds it, lacing their fingers together very gently. Aziraphale’s heart pounds in his chest — or it would, if he had one. For now, his mouth is dry, his chest heaves, and he feels as if he might burst into real tears. 

Crowley is patient. 

He’s a nice fellow like that, but if Aziraphale were to say that out loud, it would ruin the moment because Crowley would start yelling about how he’s _definitely_ not a nice fellow. 

Aziraphale steadies himself with his other hand on Crowley’s shoulder, the one closest to him, and he leans forward. 

Their breaths mingle, and even Crowley’s breath hitches. Aziraphale can feel it. Crowley doesn’t move, and he keeps his eyes closed, waiting for Aziraphale to close the distance between them. 

What happens next is a flurry of movement in Aziraphale’s memory. He, honestly, cannot remember, but by the time he wakes up from a trancelike state, he’s off of the couch, missing Crowley’s hand in his, standing up and away from Crowley. 

He can’t do it. Lord, he can’t do it... He just can’t.

Crowley sits on the couch, repositioning himself so that one arm, his right arm, remains on the back of the sofa, while the one that was holding Aziraphale’s hand, his left hand, stays in his lap. He keeps his eyes faithfully closed. 

Aziraphale runs away. He quietly runs to the backroom of the bookshop he’s decided to run, shutting the door even quieter. He takes a few deep breaths, resting his forehead against the door. He expects Crowley to come check on him any moment, so for now, he’ll gather his wits about him. 

What was he thinking? 

Tempting a demon? Was he really doing that? He clutches at his chest, ruffling his clothes, and breathes deeply. His tongue is stuck in his throat, he swears, and his face is red-hot, unbearably so. 

What’s happening to him? 

His head is spinning. The room is dizzy. No, wait, it’s the other way around, isn’t it...? Regardless, he doesn’t feel well. 

So Aziraphale stands there with his forehead pressed against the door to the backroom, trying to calm down. He’s not sure how long it takes. 

Crowley’s surely gone by now, he thinks, as he finally cracks open the door once he feels ready. But he can see Crowley’s profile from here, still with his glasses off, his eyes closed, still in the same position that Aziraphale left him in. Checking his watch shows that it was just shy of thirty minutes since Aziraphale had ran away. 

Aziraphale, now a lot more calmer, but still quite nervous, takes a breath and opens the door all the way, returning to the main room. He sits on the sofa, clearing his throat, hands in his lap. Crowley doesn’t move, simply sitting there contently with his eyes shut. 

The angel takes a chance and moves closer, so that their thighs touch. His face heats up again. He places his hand on Crowley’s shoulder once more, and he leans in, and he, and he — 

He misses. 

His lips, rather than Crowley’s lips, touch the corner of his mouth, just shy of where he was actually supposed to kiss. Panicking that he even got that close, and embarrassed that he missed his mark, he starts to pull away. 

The arm along the back of the sofa moves, and its hand finds itself in Aziraphale’s hair, tangling his fingers into the short, golden locks, keeping him from going anywhere, moving him closer. Aziraphale squeaks again, but before he can say anything, Crowley’s soft, warm lips are on his own. 

Aziraphale’s other hand clutches onto Crowley’s other arm, and Crowley rubs his thumb against the back of Aziraphale’s head, tilting his own, deepening the kiss, firm, nice, warm, warm, warm. 

He pulls away from the kiss, but only slightly, letting their breaths mingle again. Crowley finally opens his eyes, and the pupils are so, so round. 

Aziraphale finally realizes he’s looking at _him_ with those eyes, and he covers his face with both hands out of embarrassment. Crowley laughs, melodic with an edge. 

“... Thanks for the kiss, angel. I’ve been waiting centuries.”

Crowley pecks him over the hands, twice. 

* * *

1 Actually, there were a few reasons to be nervous around Crowley, but those were completely and utterly unrelated to the sort of nervousness Aziraphale is feeling currently. [return to text]

2 That’s what modern day painters do nowadays, right? They just throw paint on a canvas. “I could do that,” you always think, but did you? [return to text]

3 It would more accurately be described as “whAT?” like some sort of quirk in a web comic. [return to text]

4 And he’s had a very long life. In fact, it’s been over 6,000 years of this. “This?” This. [return to text]

5 Which is, to say, not very graceful at all. [return to text]


End file.
